


Heavy Metal

by mrhearse



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frank has a robotic arm, Gerard is a tech wiz, M/M, au: urban sci-fi, some type of sci-fi thing i don't know what this is really, there's a bunch of tech nonsense that i made up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhearse/pseuds/mrhearse
Summary: "Hey," says a voice, belonging to a the owner of a pale hand sliding a beer across the table and into Frank's line of sight. "I noticed you at the market the other day. Well, I noticed your arm, really." Oh, great. What a fucking shocker. "Where'd you get it?"Frank sighs demonstratively and gives the stranger his best death glare. "Do I look like someone who wants to tell some rando my fucking life story?"
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Heavy Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Just posting this to get it out of my system. It's not a finsihed story and it might never be RIP. Thank u H for supporting this vision lol.
> 
> Warning for descriptions of violence and body horror, losing limbs etc.

Frank is fucking over being a cyborg.

He lost his arm in the war and got a mechanical one in its place, but it isn't nearly as cool as it sounds. Not that anyone in their right mind would think that having your arm torn off at the shoulder is in any way cool. But a surprising amount of people Frank has met over the last two years since he got his new arm, have given him the same wide eyed, excited look, and asked him what it does. It doesn't _do_ anything. It's just an arm. And it's pretty fucking annoying, too. The tech is so complicated and fragile, way too complicated for Frank to understand or be able to fix himself, and it's so much work with keeping it from overheating and rusting in the hot, clammy climate of the inner city. The moisture down here is mostly piss and trash juice from the filthy streets that vapourizes off the warm concrete when the sun heats up the earth like an old piece of meat inside an oven. Slowly cooking on the inside. The sun doesn't reach the ground a lot in this part of town but the structures keep the heat in, so at street level it's real muggy and gloomy most of the time. The street lights don't really help. It smells sharp and sour, Frank wishes that instead of giving him a new elbow wire – for the bazillionth time, it doesn't even _do_ anything – that the people at the clinic would just take his sense of smell away once and for all.

He's a so-called veteran and the big boys want to take care of him, at least that's what they say, but he could only afford a piece of shit apartment in a shithole part of town for the piss shit wage they gave him for busting his ass for them out in the radioactive zone two years ago. He lost his arm out there and they think giving him a new piece of tubing every time the old one deteriorates is going to make up for it. They could have at least fixed him a better apartment. But he guesses those are very limited and reserved for very important people. Which Frank definitely is not. But he _is_ on a first name basis with all the techs at the clinic, and one of them even smiles at him and chats with him in a way that should be annoying, but somehow isn't, even though it's way too cheerful for someone who is detatching your arm and looking with a tiny flashlight into the cavity where your shoulder should be. Out of all the situations he could imagine being in a good mood, this isn't really one of them. But Shane just has a vibe to him that he genuinely cares and listens to what Frank is saying, and he seems to sympathize with Frank without pitying him, which is the best part. That just makes Frank feel like the guy doesn't deserve a death glare, unlike most people.

“Does it still hurt?” Shane asks and keeps his flashlight directed at Frank's jagged skin. “No,” Frank replies, “Not anymore.” He just sits still and looks at the various tools and bits on Shane's table next to him. “Okay, good.” Shane clicks his flashlight off. “The discolouration hasn't gone away, but I didn't expect it to. It's only the chemical reaction the skin had to the lazer treatment.” Frank just nods as Shane spins on his chair over to the table and presses the button on Frank's detatched arm that opens the little slot at the top of the shoulder part. “Like I told you before, it's nothing to worry about.” He gives Frank a reassuring smile and turns his head back to fish out a little piece of what looks like soggy, green-ish plastic foil. He throws it in the bin and puts a fresh capsule in the slot, then clicks the lid shut.

“And...” He looks over his chart that sits on the table next to Frank's metal arm. “How's the new strap feeling? Does it still cut into your shoulder blade?”

Frank sighs quietly. “No, it's better, acutally. Thank you for that, it was a real bitch before. It's still kind of throwing off my balance, though.”

Shane looks back at him and nods at everthing Frank says. He looks apologetic. “Yeah. The weight difference isn't really something we can do anything about, I'm afraid. You're just going to have to get used to the feel of it, and your balance should even out. It shouldn't take that long, as long as you're not going to change the straps again any time soon.” Frank nods. That's what he thought he would say.

“It's good to see you're looking better, Frank. Really.” Shane gives him a soft smile. He rolls his chair back to face Frank.

“How about the nightmares? Do you still get them?”

Frank looks at the floor, at the ugly, once-white and pale green pattern of the faded linoleum.

“Yeah.”

In his peripheral he can see Shane nod.

“Have they changed at all? Are they still about the same things?”

Frank shakes his head.

“Still the same.”

Shane is quiet for a while, just breathing slowly and steadily, and Frank knows he's considering him. He looks around the room, at the ugly green colour of the walls that's supposed to be calming, but really just makes Frank want to barf. God, he fucking hates it here. It's too sterile.

“Do you want me to up your dose again? It might not have been the right time to lower it right now. But that's okay, we can up it again if you think it would help.”

Frank sighs. Shane is too fucking nice. He's not sure if he's _supposed_ to be this nice to all of his patients because it's his job, or if he's just a really nice guy. He's not sure what he did to deserve being assigned such a nice technician.

The plastic creaks as Frank shifts on his seat.

“No, you don't have to. It made me nauseous.”

Shane nods again, and scribbles something on his chart.

“Alright. Let's see your blood, yeah?”

Frank doesn't really enjoy getting his blood tests done, but he's done it so many times now that he could practically do it to himself. He's not supposed to do that, though. _Has to be administered by authorized personnel_ , Shane has told him. Frank accepts it. Shane's hand is firm and gentle as he feels around for Frank's veins. Frank just breathes.

*

He's on his back. Someone is pulling at him, dragging him across the floor. His breath is coming out fast and shallow, someone is touching his chest, their hands coming away red. Everything is throbbing painfully, rythmically along with the pulsing fluorescent lighting overhead.

“He's got multiple stab wounds. Get these holes sealed up.”

He's strangely unaware of his body, just the cold, hard floor against his back, and this odd stinging in his chest. There's people leaning over him, around him, moving blurrily in and out of his field of vision.

“Jesus,” someone says. “His arm.”

Then he's outside, in the sand, and the sun is blinding him, he's pressed against the side of the helio-copter, and then as the crashing hovercraft slides against him he can feel his shoulder pop, and then he's being torn to shreds. His lungs don't have any air left in them to scream with, he hits the ground right after he sees it being stained red by his own blood spraying out under him, and he knows he's going to fucking die.

Someone is dragging him across the sand, he sees the wreckage getting smaller as he's being pulled away. Then the sun is disappearing, being exchanged for cold, artificial lights flashing above him.

“Multiple stab wounds,” a voice says from far away, encased in a thick fog. “Get these holes sealed up.”

“Get a chest tube ready.”

“Right lung is collapsed.”

“I need a grade seven co-ag.”

“Jesus, his arm.”

The sun is being blocked out by the hovercraft, flames are licking out from the cockpit, out over the windshield and around the sides, the heat is slamming against Frank like a tidal wave, knocking him back against something hard. As the glider slides sideways in the sky, Frank runs, but it's happening so fucking fast; the next thing he knows is a sharp, piercing pain in his side that's ripping the air out of him, like barbed wire being pulled up through his windpipe. Something is very wrong, he feels strangely light on his right side and as he crashes to the ground he sees the sand changing colour from pale orange to deep red.

He's being moved, hands are dragging him by the shoulders across the floor into the base, EMTs are rushing past him and around him, opening his vest and sticking their hands into his shirt and touching his chest.

“Jesus, his arm. Get that sealed up. He's losing a lot of blood.”

He wakes up with a jolt, heart racing. The sounds of gunshots and rushed voices are still ringing in his ears. His breath is coming out quick and sharp, loud in the silent, dark room. He pulls his blanket off, he's drenched in sweat, and he shivers, even as he feels the hot air of the room against his damp skin. He rubs his hand over his face, trying to push the nightmare away. It doesn't go away so easily. He turns over on his side, and his heart sinks as he feels the side of his chest press into the soft mattress. No arm. He took it off when he went to bed, like always, it's too uncomfortable to sleep with it on, the straps over his chest pull uncomfortably when he lies on his side.

He rolls back onto his back and looks up at the dark ceiling, just trying to breathe and will his heart to slow down. His chest is twinging painfully, the memory of the stinging pain lingering strangely from the dream. He tries to tell himself he's safe. He's safe. He's not dying. He's in his bed, in his apartment, and he's safe. He's been getting better at telling himself that lately.

*

Frank's appointment to change his chip panel was moved because someone had to step in for someone else somewhere or whatever the fuck, and that would have been fine, had it not been for the fact that somehow the system hadn't deleted his original appointment, and he'd gotten a message saying that since he hadn't been in contact with the clinic for the last six months and hadn't reported that he couldn't come in and hadn't shown up, he had been effectively deleted from the list to make room for the next patient in line, and has to send in a new application for approval if he wants to reopen his file. And Frank has just fucking had it. This whole thing is such fucking bullshit. He knows it's going to take fucking forever to sit on the waitlist to get his file reopened.

He stomps into the underground, not that anything is really “above ground” in this part of town, if seeing the sunlight is anything to go by anyway. The platform is scattered with a few people waiting for the train, Frank does his best not to notice they're even there. If he doesn't engage anyone they usually leave him alone, which is exactly what he wants. He looks at his sneakers on the grimy platform floor as the sound of a train screeching into the station fills the room, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. A scratchy voice announces the line number over the speakers, it isn't Frank's train, and he keeps his hands stuffed firmly into his pockets, and doesn't look up as he listens to the metallic sounds of the doors opening and then closing, the train sighing dramatically as it starts to pull out of the station and leaps into the tunnel.

He really has to get his chip panel switched out. Soon. It's already started to flicker ominously, and he knows at this point it will only last a couple of weeks, at most. Fuck the application. He's going up to the clinic without an appointment, they fucking owe him. The clinic is east on level 17. The elevator up from 13 would barely let him on when he scanned his chip at the doors. Fucking piece of shit battery. Eventually the doors had slid open and he pressed the button for 17, thank god. No way he was taking the stairs up four levels in this heat.

The warm air swirls and pushes against him as another trains rushes into the station. The prerecorded female voice leaks out of the speakers again, announcing this is the _Upper Lower Cluster line, eastbound_. Frank looks up, and sees the train slow to a halt. He walks up to the neareat door, pushes the button and gets on. He sits down by a window, and as the train starts moving again, he watches the inside of the inner city tunnels rush past in a dark blur.

*

“I'm sorry, but we can't do anything about that right now. There's a lot of people on the waitlist, and we can't just put you in before them, you have to wait your turn.”

The lady behind the front desk gives him a fake sympathetic smile. Frank is livid.

“But I had an appointment! It was supposed to be next week! I'm already in the system, I already have my application approved.”

The clerk looks tiredly at him. “You're not on the schedule. If you don't have an appointment, you need to fill out the application. We'll put you back on the waitlist, and you'll be notified when we can fit you in for an appointment.”

“What the fuck!” Frank exclaims, loudly enough that a few people in the waiting room turn their heads to look over at him. The clerk gives him a stern look. Frank doesn't even try to keep his voice down. “I've been coming here for two years! You _know_ me. You _know_ I'm in the system.”

She blinks and just looks blankly at him. “Please sir, you're not the only patient here.”

Frank takes a slow breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tries his best not to leap across the desk and strangle the clerk. _Helen_. She's seen him a million times, she knows who he is, she knows he had an appointment next week. “Can I speak to Shane?” he says, in a much more controlled voice. He's proud of himself for managing to stay collected. “He's my regular.” When Helen looks like she's about to tell him to leave, he adds, “Please?”

She gives him a long look. Then she sighs and presses a few buttons on her keyboard, and touches the little button on the side of her earpiece.

“Hi, this is front desk. Mr Iero is here, he'd like to speak with you.” She looks at Frank as she pauses. “Yes. Okay.” She taps her earpiece again and gives Frank a half-smile. “Mr Barber will be out shortly.”

They wait in silence, until a door at the end of the room opens, and Shane strides over to the front desk. He smiles at Frank and nods as he greets them.

“Frank, hi! What are you doing here? Has something happened?”

Frank shakes his head. “I'm fine. I mean, I'm not sick or anything, as far as I know. But like, I was rescheduled to renew my chip panel next week, and now they're saying I've been taken off the list because I didn't show up to my appointment, that was _moved_ , and now I have to send a new application. Can you just, please get me back on the list? It's not even my fault, I didn't miss my appointment, they changed it!” Frank knows he's pathetic. But like, he's not _wrong_. It _isn't_ his fault.

Shane blinks at him, confused. “What? Your old appointment time wasn't deleted from the plan?” Frank just shrugged at him. _Apparently not_.

“Well, that's unfortunate,” Shane says, frowning. “Uh. Listen, Frank, I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything.” That's doctor talk for “yeah, that's not gonna fucking happen, buddy”.

Frank sighs. “So. In the meantime. What am I gonna do about my tech?”

Shane raises his eyebrows at him and gives him one of those slow nods that authority figures give you when they're trying not to let on that they think you're being an idiot. Frank's never seen Shane do that before. To _him_. What the fuck.

“If it's urgent there's always the emergency room, Frank. You'll be fine. We'll fix your tech at the next appointment.”

Frank wants to scream. But he realises it probably won't get him very far at this point. He just nods sullenly and thanks Shane, gives a nod to Helen, before he turns around and heads for the exit.

On the subway on the way back to Southside, Frank notices people staring. He tries to look as unaproachable as possible, not even bothering to hide his frown. He's fucking tired of this shit. People always stare at his arm, at how it bulges out weirdly at the shoulder where it's strapped around his ribcage, at how stiff it looks, even with long sleeves it doesn't really look like a normal arm. He knows he isn't the only one with a mechanical limb. Lots of people have them. But that doesn't mean people don't stare, and Frank hates it. People always think it's so fucking cool, and it's _not_. He will not be able to get his tech updated for the foreseeable future because the clinic fucked up their own datasystem, and if his joints rust or his fucking elbow wire snaps again, the whole thing is just going to feel like a strange dead weight, but he doesn't really want to take _off_ either, because that will make his balanse weird and it will look even _more_ unnatural, plus only having one hand is kind of inconvenient. He's gotten pretty familiar with that fact the last couple of years.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares into the dark blur rushing past the train window the whole ride back.

*

The Green Square is in walking distance of Frank's apartment. It resembles what one might call, in the lower levels, a park. There's pale green trees lining the edges of the square, kept alive by artificial sunlight and watering systems, and a few benches in the shadow of the branches. On Saturdays there's a market there, but now it's empty and quiet. The ceiling is higher here than the rest of the steets, there's a one level gap so that the next level up is 15, making the square almost a big hall, or rather a long concrete tube inside the massive structure of the city. The lighting way up in the high ceiling and along the walls glows in soft greens and whites. That's one of the reasons Frank likes being here. It's calm, and the light isn't as bright as the squares usually are. Frank sits on one of the benches along the edge, with his grocery bag sitting next to him. He guesses this really shouldn't shock him. The system has always been a pain in the ass. No one ever wants to do any paperwork, so they leave all low grade logistics to the algorithms, which, no matter how many times they update them, never quite seem to figure out how to hit the mark.

He lights up a cigarette and smokes it in silence, watching the people walking across the square, talking, some holding hands, some laughing. Some just walking quickly and determinedly to whatever their destination is. As he takes a drag of his smoke, Frank feels his fingertips against his lips. It was weird to switch hands for doing simple tasks like this, back then. Two years ago he had suddenly become very aware of how out of practise his non dominant hand was at motion control, how weird and alien it felt to pick up his fork and brush his teeth and write his name. He has gotten more used to it, but he still isn't as good with his left hand as he had been with his right. Now he can techically use his right arm to do any of these things like before, he can bend his joints and close his fingers and move it almost like his old arm, the tech is made to read his brain waves and nerve signals, but it isn't quite the same. He supposes it won't ever be.

He finishes his cigarette and looks at his hand while he throws the butt in the trashbin next to the bench. The letters across his knuckles used to line up with his other hand, but now the _H-A-LL-O_ is gone, along with the anchor, the barbed wire around his wrist, the spiderweb with the _hopeless_ , and the portraits of his grandparents. He gets up and grabs his groceries from the bench, and heads out of the square, down the street towards his apartment.

*

Frank had his chip installed in a panel in his arm, shortly after realising it would be really fucking convenient, as he had the habit of forgetting to keep it on him before. Most people usually just carry their chip as jewlery or on their person somehow, but Frank could never seem to get the hang of it. He decided it was a lot easier if he just always had it on him. He won't ever forget to bring it or lose it, unless he loses the whole fucking arm. And he thinks he would probably notice that. The thing is, though, that after a while the tech always goes gooey, the battery starts to fade and won't charge back up, so every once in a while he'll have to go the clinic and have the techs put in a new panel. Now that he isn't technically registered at the clinic anymore, he doesn't really have any concrete plans to get it changed. Suddenly it's really not so fucking convenient anymore.

When Saturday comes around, the day when he was supposed to go into the clinic if they hadn't fucked up his appointment, Frank goes to the Green Market instead. He might as well look for more pieces for the guitar he's trying to build, or rather rebuild, after he smashed it in the middle of a murderous rage a while ago. He still needs a humbucker pickup, and the ones they sell in the stores are too generic and shitty. The older models are way better quality, but they're harder to come by. He's always on the lookout. He needs a couple of new screws too.

He likes the Green Market. There's always a bunch of people from street level setting up their booths, and he likes those people better than most. Street level might be one of the last places Frank would want to spend extended periods of time, but the people that come up to Thirteen on Saturdays are for some reason really enjoyable. They don't stare as much, and they're polite, if you just learn that their insults are well meaning. Frank mostly appreaciates not feeling like a freak for a little while.

Frank weaves his way through the crowded square, looking around at the people and the stuff they're selling or trading. He recognizes a few people, a few he usually sees around his neighbourhood and a few that frequents the market, and he waves or nods at them in acknowledgement when there's too many people between them to say hello.

Zero's booth is set up in its usual spot at the far side of the square. Frank pokes at the stiff fabric of the strange garments they've got displayed on hangers hanging from the canvas roof.

“There's no way anyone wears this shit,” he says.

Zero turns their head towards him while another person is processing their payment on the other side of the booth. “I'm telling you, man, they do,” they say over their shoulder to Frank. “This is hot shit up on Thirty-Four.” They turn back to the customer, handing them a large bundle of blankets wrapped around something unmistakably hard and pointy, and most likely illegal.

Frank raises his eyebrow, eyeing a blue, shiny shirt in front of him. “You think I can afford as much as _breathing_ up there? I'm not sure if I should be offended or not, Z.” He inspects the crinkly fabric closer, eyeing the seams. “These look fake as hell, anyway.”

Zero turns their head slightly sideways, at the same time as nodding at a woman coming up to the booth and handing him a folded up piece of paper. “Frank, I would never suggest that your financial situation is in any way an indication of your integrity. You're a man of the finest quality. You've got all your parts screwed on right.”

Frank smiles and shakes his head to himself. He guesses he deserved that one. He doesn't feel too stung.

“Fuck you, man. You're so full of shit.”

Zero turns around and gives him a stern look. “True, but that still doesn't give you the right to call me by a gender spesific term.”

Shit. He didn't think about what he'd said. He offered Zero an apologetic look.

“My bad. Didn't mean it like that.”

Zero blinks and nods once. “I know.” They don't sound mad. They unfold the paper they're holding and looks it over, then fold it up again and hands it back to the woman standing next to the booth. When they nod at her, she promptly walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Have you seen any of the stuff I asked about?” Frank says, happily moving on from the awkward conversation.

Zero bursts out laughing. “No, I haven't,” they say, turning back to Frank and grinning. “You're really picky, you know.”

“I just want good quailty,” Frank retorts, “There's nothing wrong with that.” Zero just keeps laughing at him.

“ _Good quality_ doesn't exist anywhere below Sixteen, and you know it.”

“It does if you know where to look,” Frank says easily.

“You mean, if you make a simple, _honest_ merchant look _for you._ ”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with that,” Frank grins. He's already forgotten all about his cancelled appointment.

*

“Hey,” says a voice, belonging to a the owner of a pale hand sliding a beer across the table and into Frank's line of sight. “I noticed you at the market the other day.”

Oh, great. Frank really isn't in the mood for chatting with some extrovert right now. The voice is high pitched and could almost read as female, but there's a deeper breathiness to it that leads Frank to believe it's not a woman trying to chat him up. Not that it matters who's trying to chat him up. He's not interested either way. He doesn't look up, just takes a sip of his own beer and ignores them.

“Well, I noticed your arm, really,” the voice says. Oh, _great_. What a fucking shocker. “Where'd you get it?”

Frank sighs demonstratively and gives the stranger his best death glare. “Do I _look_ like someone who wants to tell some rando my fucking life story?”

The person standing on the other side of the table appears to be a young guy, a few years younger than Frank by the looks of it; he's got shoulder length, bright red hair, falling in unwashed tufts around his smooth and pretty face, and he's dressed in a padded black vest with a few assorted pins on the breast pocket. His pale arms starkly contrast his dark clothes, and his jeans might have been blue once, but are now of indeterminable, dark greyish colour. The typical teenage rebel punk type who thinks they dress cool, thinks they're gonna change the world, and wears that look of someone who is too fucking curious for their own good.

He looks back at Frank, gives a slow nod and purses his lips.

“Fair. I'm not really interested, anyway. I have a theory, but... I'm actually more interested in the tech itself.” Of fucking course. Why can Frank never catch a break? Apparently the stranger takes their interaction as an invitation to get comfortable, because he sits down in a chair opposite Frank and takes a casual swig of his beer. Frank eyes the bottle on the table, makes no move to touch it.

“It looks advanced,” the guy comments, and tips his beer towards Frank's arm.

“It's not,” Frank replies. “Now go away.”

To his dismay, the kid doesn't go away.

“It's fully nervo-synchronized, isn't it? All the way up?” He asks. If he can tell that, it means he's probably been looking pretty closely. This guy seriously has a deathwish.

“If you already know the answer, why are you asking me?” Frank says. He was already annoyed before this idiot started bothering him, that's why he fucking came in here, to get a drink and relax, and now he regrets that decision very much. What a prying fuck. He's seriously considering getting up and leaving, even though he hasn't finished his drink, because his patience is wearing dangerously thin.

“Cause it's seriously cool. I've never seen one up close.”

Frank isn't in the mood to give him the Not Cool spiel. “How sad for you,” he deadpans. The annoying stranger looks at Frank and breathes in, then bites his lip, like he wants to ask something else, but is holding himself back. His eyes are wide and bright, and shifting down from Frank's face to his arm repeatedly.

“Why don't you take a fuckin' picture, huh?” Frank grumbles. “And then leave me alone.” Can this guy not take a fucking hint? Frank is being more than generous with him right now.

His eyes shoot up to Frank's face, and Frank can only see a slight sliver of guilt in them, the prick. Frank keeps giving him the death glare. “I'm extremely busy here, if you couldn't tell.”

Frank was here first. He has the right to have a drink by himself and not be harassed by some punk who thinks they're a fan of him. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the redhead's eyes sparkle with excitement as they follow the movement. He glances back up to meet Frank's eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching a little. “I can see that.” He doesn't really look like he's at all deterred by Frank's sarcasm, he's just countering it, and it's making Frank mad. He's looking Frank over with a quizzical expression, almost but not quite smiling. Frank wants him to leave already.

“You got anything else to ask?” Frank demands, deciding that maybe staring him down instead of looking away will make him get the picture. “I'm a fucking open book. Hell, I'm a whole fucking library, apparently.” He doesn't give a shit that he's raising his voice. He notices the bartender glancing over at them, but he ignores it. They don't comment, and go back to tapping at their monitor screen.

The punk is quiet for a while, still pressing his lips together, clearly trying to decide what to say. He's still looking down at Frank's arm, and glancing him over like he's an exhibition in a fucking museum. Frank wants to punch him square in his pretty face.

“You fought for them, didn't you?”

If there was an award for saying the absolute worst thing possible, Frank would give it to this guy right now. Because wow. Bold of him to think he gets to assume shit about Frank and his life. He doesn't know _shit_. Not to mention Frank spends most of his time trying to forget about the shit he went through out there, and then here is this inconsiderate, dickwad twink just bringing it up, like it's not all of Frank's absolute worst experiences piled into one burning trash heap.

Frank sighs tiredly. He feels really heavy all of a sudden, his anger deflating into a resigned weight, burning in the pit of his stomach.

“Listen, kid. The war is _over_. Has been for a while. So why don't you just fuck off and go back to robbing convenience stores, or whateverthefuck it is you do. Stop pestering me.”

The guy raises an eyebrow at him. “ _Kid?_ What are you, an old man?” he asks, and narrows his eyes at Frank. He looks amused, like he's having a blast bickering with Frank, his lips quirked up in a half smile. Frank doesn't have the energy to argue with him anymore. He empties his beer, and eyes the bottle on the table in front of him, still untouched. Then he decides, fuck it, and leans forward and grabs it, setting the empty bottle down. If he just ignores the guy, he will eventually go away, when he realises he's not going to get any more out of this conversation. Hopefully. It usually works. He's gotten quite good at ignoring people lately.

He turns his head pointedly away, and drinks the beer in silence, pretending he never heard the question. The silence drags on between them. Thank fucking god.

After a while, there's a tell-tale intake of air coming from across the table. Frank pretends he still can't see the bright red blob in his peripheral.

“I didn't mean to... be insensitive.”

His voice has dropped to a soft, quiet tone. He sounds like he genuinely means it. Boo-fucking-hoo.

“I'm sorry,” he adds.

Frank ignores him.

When he's down to the bottom of his beer bottle, he just sits still and holds it in his hand, not moving or turning his head. He feels strangely calm, but a little confused. His anger has drained out of him, for the most part, now he would just like to go home and sleep for the next two days. That probably won't happen, though, or at least wouldn't be very enjoyable. He's had nightmares almost every night this week. Maybe he should have agreed to have his meds upped when Shane had asked him. He's confused as to why the red-haired punk is still sitting here. None of them have said a word for at least fifteen minutes. Now that he isn't as mad anymore, he kind of appreciates the apology. He doesn't consider them best friends or anything, but saying sorry at least shows a shred of decency. It's beyond all Frank's expecations that the kid even has as much.

“What's that?” the kid suddenly asks, still in that same soft, gentle voice. The sound makes Frank stir on instinct, and he looks towards the source of it. He's nodding at Frank and eyeing his lower arm. Frank looks down and sees the panel at his wrist blinking, like it had been doing periodically for days.

“It's none of your business,” he answers.

“Something wrong with it?” the guy presses.

“It's none of your _business_ ,” Frank says again, firmer this time. He sets his eyes firmly into the stranger. He shouldn't have been surprised when the guy just looks steadily back at him.

“Well, I could _make_ it my business.”

Frank blinks at him. He's got to be fucking kidding. No way he's trying to make a pass at Frank right now. Frank chokes out a little laugh.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I'm like. Pretty good with tech stuff,” the guy explains, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. “I could probably fix it for you. If you'd let me look at it...” he trails off and gives Frank an inquiring look. Frank is suddenly torn. He looks skeptically at the redhead. It's really not a good idea to let a stranger look at his tech. It's a really fucking bad idea. But maybe, if he really _does_ know his shit, he might be able to know of a trick to make the panel on Frank's arm stay alive for a while longer. He doesn't have a spot at the clinic anymore. He doesn't have any idea how to fix this shit himself. He's not sure what other options he has, really, if he wants to have a working chip for the forseeable future. He needs it to take the elevators, and the subway. He needs it to pay for his groceries. And to unlock his door to his apartment.

“Alright,” Frank says. He knows this is such a bad idea. He has to be out of his mind. He doesn't even know this guy. If he was at the Green Market he might be planning to knock Frank unconscious and steal his arm to sell the parts.

The guy gets up and comes over to the other side of the table, drags a chair over to sit down next to Frank. He hunches over and inspects Frank's wrist, furrowing his brows and squinting his eyes a little. When he get it, his face opens up and he smiles a little. “Oh. Clever.”

Frank can't help but feel a little smug. He came up with the idea for it himself.

“Does it flash like this normally?”

Frank shakes his head. “No, the battery is dying. It's just blinking to remind me to change it.”

The guy peers up at him through his hair that's hanging over his face. “So why don't you?”

Frank sighs a little. “'Cus it's kind of custom made. My clinic is the only one that has it, I think. I can't just go to the store and buy a new one. But they refuse to get me a time to change it, and won't for like, months, probably. 'Cus they hate me.”

“It's custom made?” the guy eyes Frank's arm with renewed interest. Not that it ever went away. Now he looks excited.

“Yeah,” Frank says, “Apparently inserting your chip into your artificial limb isn't something that everyone does. _Weird_.” He gives the redhead a sour look.

The guy looks up at him with an amused smile. That smile is starting to grow on Frank, just a little.

“Okay. So...” He considers Frank's arm for a minute. Then he shifts his eyes back to Frank. “Can I touch it?”

Frank hesitates for just a moment. Then he says, “Sure.”

It's always weird to have someone touching his arm, because he doesn't feel it. The arm does whatever he wants it to, it operates on his brain's commands just like the rest of his limbs, but for some reason it doesn't respond to touch. He guesses it was unnecessary to award him an advanced feature like that, or something, that's not essential to it's functioning. He hadn't done anything extraordinary out in the field to make himself deserving of any special treatment. Maybe he could upgrade it one day, if he could ever afford it.

The red-haired punk gently grabs Frank's wrist and turns it over, looking closely at all the small screws and tubes and wires that are visible through the plexiglass surface. Having someone else than the clinic techs poke and prod at him is very strange and unfamiliar, but something about this guy's calm and focused expression as he looks Frank's arm up and down, makes Frank believe he really does know what he's doing.

“Does it have a separate battery? I mean, it doesn't connect to the rest of the system?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, then, “ – No. The panel charges off of the main system, but the battery itself is getting weak. It's not charging back up.”

The punk nods. “What type of terminal is it?”

“Dual CMOS,” Frank says. He's heard that term a million times by now, but he's still not sure what exactly it means. It's got something to do with the conductors, as far as he can tell.

“Okay. So,” The guy straightens up and looks at Frank. “I'm pretty sure I can fix it. If you want. But I'll need my gear. It's all at my studio.”

Frank really isn't sure if this is a seriouosly strange attemt at getting Frank to come home with him or not. He strongly doubts it. There's no indication that he's trying to flirt. Why the fuck would he, anyway? Frank guesses that the thing he'd said about “making it his business” had just been poorly worded. He's still vaguely aware of the possibility that this might be a scam and that this guy is trying to rob him for parts. Going home with strangers really isn't safe. Frank considers his options.

He decides he'll have to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be, when they come.

“Okay,” he nods, and starts to stand up. “Lead the way.”

The redhead stands up, and Frank realises he's taller than him. Not really a shocker, considering _everyone_ is taller than Frank, pretty much. But it might be a problem if he's going to have to fight him off in the near future. Frank looks him over. His arms don't look especially muscular. Frank hasn't fought anyone in a while, but the training still sits in his system. He recons he could take him.

“Oh, ah, by the way,” the guy sticks his hand out. Frank notices it's his left hand. “I'm Gerard.”

Frank eyes him, then reaches his left hand, his _real_ hand, out to shake Gerard's.

“Frank,” he says.

Gerard smiles. It's _really_ starting to grow on him. “Nice to meet you, Frank.”

*

“So you mean you can fix it?” Frank asks, puzzled as Gerard opens up the little device that he's taken out of Frank's arm and put on the table. At the clinic they never open it up like that, they just take out the chip and stick it into a brand new one and power it up. “Actually fix it? Like, not just temporarily?” Gerard gives him a sideways glance.

“Define temporarily.”

Frank doesn't know if that is supposed to make him feel better or not.

Gerard's “studio” is really just the bigger part of his small apartment, Frank realised as soon as he stepped inside. He probably should have realised it when he'd fished a key, an actual _key,_ with teeth that you fit into a lock, out of his pocket outside the door. Or when he had insisted they took the stairs down instead of the elevator, which Frank had instinctively headed for, telling him he liked taking the stair because it “kept him in shape”. They're just below street level, and Frank probably should have decided to change his mind and run in the opposite direction as soon as he'd realised that, but he hadn't.

Now he's sitting on a chair that Gerard had quickly relieved of a stack of papers, watching as Gerard goes back to concentrating on the little device, peering into the open slot. It's full of small, delicate looking metal pieces, and one bigger, faded black rectangle with a thin yellow stripe on it. Gerard nods his head and hums. “It's just the battery that's done for, right?”

Frank confirms. “Yeah, I guess. Happens on the semi regular. It's probably 'cause of the moisture down here, like the rest of my shit tech that they refuse to upgrade. I've had it changed twice already.”

Gerard nods again. “Alrighty. It looks like this is a short battery model anyway. I can give you a better one, if you want,” he says, and looks up.

Frank is confused. “I thought they made them so you couldn't change the battery. That's why they always just replace the whole thing.”

The corners of Gerard's mouth twitch into an almost-smile. “Well no,” he says, “You _can_ change it. It's just that the battery will sometimes explode when you try to take it out.”

Frank stares at him. He doesn't look too worried, which is just making Frank even more worried. He wonders briefly if this is really where he's going to die.

He watches as Gerard gingerly takes the battery out of its slot, and flings it into a metal bin, then quickly closes the lid. He stares at it in silence for a good few seconds, but nothing happens. Frank just looks back and forth between him and the metal bin.

After a silence that stretched on for way too long for Frank's liking, Gerard nods and hums. “We're good,” he says, gives Frank a thumbs-up, and starts rummaging around in a cabinet full of drawers, pulling open and closing one after the other. Frank eyes the metal bin nervously.

“Now where the fuck did I...ah.” Gerard turns back to Frank and brandishes a small black and silver battery. It looks almost completely identical to the ones he's used to, except when Gerard holds it up closer to his face he can see two small blue lines on one side. “You probably won't need another change in a while, this bad boy is real sturdy.” He fits the battery into the device and starts screwing back in the little screws holding the box together. When he's done, he motions for Frank to put his arm out.

He holds Frank's wrist with one hand and puts the tech into its slot with the other, and it clicks neatly into place. He clicks the lid shut and pushes the little button next to it until the green light comes back on. Then he gives Frank's hand a little pat and releases the grip he had around his wrist. “But if anyone asks, though, you didn't get it from me,” he winks.

Frank frowns at him. He realises he hadn't thought about that until now, and he isn't sure he likes it one bit.

“What do I tell them?” He guesses that “got it from the black market and had an unlicensed tech install it at said tech's level 7 apartment” isn't really the best answer when the people at the clinic eventually start asking questions. He might not need to change it again anytime soon, but at some point he's gonna have to go back in. He's not sure if he could look Shane in the eye while telling him he's had work done in an unsanitary place. He can already hear the speech he's going to get about “helping them help him”. _Do you have any idea how long bacteria can survive in the nooks and crannies of your joints, Frank? Metal surfaces hold dirt better than any other material, we've been over this. Your shoulder might be healed but that doesn't doesn't make you immune to all the 6_ _th_ _generation organisms that want to lay eggs in your skin..._ Frank really doesn't look forward to that. There's got to be a better way to go about this. He looks to Gerard expectantly, but Gerard only purses his lips and shrugs.

“I doubt it's gonna be a problem.” he offers easily.

Frank stares at him.

“What? Are you kidding me? I'm gonna have to go to the clinic eventually.”

Gerard looks unperturbed. “Well, if they usually just take the whole thing out, like you said, instead of changing the battery, they're not even gonna notice. They'll have to open it up to see it's a different model.” Frank gives him his best incredulous look. He can't believe he's gotten himself into this stupid situation. Gerard takes a breath, and tilts his head a little to the side. “But I mean, if you're really worried, you could always come come back to me, if you want. When you need to change it.”

Frank wonders when the fuck he decided he was going to become a criminal. He isn't even sure if this _is_ illegal. But it definitely _feels_ very illegal, with Gerard's Frankenstein radio sitting on the table in the middle of the room with wires poking out in every direction, and eight billion assorted bits and pieces scattered on most other surfaces Frank can see. He's not sure if the people at the clinic would care if he had some weird unauthorized tech. There's a lot of muddy shit going on in this cluster at all times of the day and night, so they shouldn't be surprised, at least. But Frank can't help but feel like he kind of just signed himself up for avoiding the clinic for the rest of his life. Yes, he kind of hates going there, but he also kind of depends on them. What if they take away his rights to fix his tech for free because he went outside the fold? He can't afford paying for new batteries and wire changes all the time. Frank just wants to live his damn life in peace. This is seriously stressing him out. Is it too late to ask Gerard to take it out again?

“Dude, relax,” Gerard leans in and puts a gentle hand on Frank's real arm. Frank can feel how warm his palm is through his shirt sleeve. “It's gonna be fine. It's a good battery. It's gonna hold up for a good while. You've got time to think about it.”

Somehow that did make Frank feel a little bit better. He supposes, if this battery is better than the one he gets issued from the clinic usually, it's gonna be a good thirteen or fourteen months until he has to change it again. Maybe more. If he doesn't have to go in to the clinic to get something else fixed, that is. He has time to come up with an excuse.

He nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.”

Gerard gives him an easy smile. “No problem.”

Frank decided to leave shortly after that. He felt weird about staying. As Gerard is showing him out, Frank turns to look at him again.

“You really saved my ass, man, I appreciate it.”

Gerard leans against the door frame. “No problem,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I figured I kind of owed you. Sorry again, for. You know. Being such a dick earlier. I really didn't mean to be rude.”

“You made up for it, I guess,” Frank says. Gerard nods, eyeing the floor. Then his face lights up and he looks excitedly up at Frank.

“Oh, and by the way, uh. I'm playing a show tonight, it's at the Morgue. You should come. Nine o'clock.”

Frank shakes his head in confusion. “A show?”

Gerard nods. “Yeah, with my band.”

Frank gapes. He knows he is. He closes his mouth.

“You're in a band?” he asks. He stares wide eyed at the red-haired punk.

Gerard grins. “Heh. Yeah.” He shifts his weight onto his other leg. “You wanna come?”

Frank is a little stunned. He doesn't really go out a lot. People always stare so damn much, and after a few drinks, they're not too shy to tell him to his face how “fucking radical” they think his arm is, either. He doesn't enjoy it. But something tells him he shouldn't turn this down. He doesn't have a lot of friends, much less friends that invite him to things. He doesn't remember the last time he went to a show. And something is also telling him that the places Gerard's band plays, aren't exactly glamorous. He guesses that's one of the perks of being below-street. People give less of a shit about how you look, or if you have a metal arm.

He smiles up at Gerard and gives him a little nod. “Sure.”

*

The street lighting dims in the evenings, fading from their usual bright white fluorescence, into soft yellow and orange. Frank makes his way down the narrow stairway from level 11 to 10, as the lamp above him flickers slowly and makes a quiet, metallic plinking sound before settling on nighttime mode. There's a decent amount of people out tonight, walking down the streets and going in or coming out of elevators and bars and stores, but none of them really look at Frank more than glancing at him as they walk past him. He crosses the street and heads for the next flight of stairs. He's not sure if taking the stairs really makes sense, his thought process was along the lines of that if he took the elevator his moves would be way easier to track. Then he remembered it's not a crime to go out on a Thursday night. But now that he's already walked down three levels, he doesn't really mind it. He kind of likes walking. The streets are dark, people don't stare, and the further down he gets, the shittier the clubs seem to get. He sort of enjoys it.

He spots the bar from across the street, he'd followed the directions Gerard had given him, and it turned out to be pretty easy to find. The big neon sign above the door is kind of hard to miss, the _MORGUE_ blaring at the whole street in fluorescent hot pink.

There's a few people on the pavement outside, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Frank passes them and pulls open the door. Inside it's dark, and loud, there's music on the speakers and people everywhere, sitting at tables or standing in groups, and at the end of the long room Frank can see an elevated platform. He suddenly feels a little out of place. He hasn't been to a place like this in ages, or maybe ever. Despite the darkness, Frank think it looks a lot dirtier than the places he used to frequent before. There's posters and graffiti all over the walls, it smells like beer and cigarette smoke, and as he walks further into the room he feels the soles of his shoes stick to the floor a little. He weaves his way through the crowd and looks around, for a place to sit, or for a familiar face.

Someone shouts his name from up on the platform to his right. “Frank! Hey!” He looks over, and there's Gerard, waving his arms in the air even though he's standing thirty inches above everyone else. Frank makes his way over.

Up on the stage there's four other people, all holding instruments or messing with monitors and cables. Gerard comes over to the end of the stage and hops down onto the floor in a swift move as Frank gets past the girls standing in the front row.

“You made it,” Gerard says, smiling wide.

“Uh, yeah..” Frank blinks at him. He's wearing a tight, black t-shirt with a bunch of holes in it, revealing his pale skin underneath, and equally torn, baggy dark jeans, held in place with a spiked belt. His hair is teased up into a violent, red mess, and there's a thick, black bar painted across his eyes.

“How are you?” Gerard calls, over the noise in the room, leaning closer so Frank will hear. Frank can't help but to let out a breathy laugh. Gerard looks pretty ridiculous.

“I – I'm good,” he says. Gerard grins.

“Awesome.” He looks Frank over. “You want a beer?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Frank nods, and Gerard turns around towards the stage, rasing his arm in the air and waving.

“Hey, Mikey! Mikey! Get me a beer!” Up on the stage, a skinny guy with blond hair stops adjusting a microphone stand and looks up. Gerard waves, and the guy raises an eyebrow at him. “Beer!” Gerard shouts again. The guy turns around, crouches down and comes back up with two bottles. He comes over to the edge of the stage and says, “We're on soon, get the fuck back up here,” but he still hands one of the beers to Gerard, who takes it, and grins. The blond guy flips him off before turning around and going back to what he was doing.

Gerard turns back, pops the cap and hands the beer over to Frank. Frank accepts it, and gives an inquisitive nod towards the stage, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, that's Mikey. He's my brother,” Gerard says. Frank nods in a way that hopefulls reads as “Oh, cool,” and takes a sip of his beer.

Frank notices suddenly that he can't see a single person drinking out of a glass, everyone's holding cans or bottles. He looks towards the bar, that doesn't have a single tap or bottle on the shelves behind it, and it dawns on him.

“Is this illegal?” Frank says, looking around the bustling room.

Gerard laughs and grins at him. “Uh, yeah. Obviously. What of it?”

“Uh...” Frank isn't sure what to say. “Isn't that, like... We could get in trouble.”

Gerard waves him off. “That's the joy of living down here, Frank. Nobody gives one fifth of a shit.”

Frank eyes the beer bottle in his hand.

Gerard just laughs again, this loud, honking laugh that is absolutely ridiculous, and it makes Frank crack up too. “It's really not a big deal,” Gerard says, giving Frank a look that says 'trust me'. “I promise.”

Frank is about to open his mouth to say he can deal with it, when the sound of boosted bass drums thrums loudly through the speakers, signalling that the band is about to gear up. Gerard looks up at the stage, then back to Frank. “I gotta go,” he says, and climbs back onto the platform. “Don't go anywhere,” he adds, pointing a finger at Frank, before jogging to the back of the stage. The music on the speakers fades out, and the chatter starts to calm a little. Frank sees Gerard lift a bass guitar up from its stand, hoisting the strap over his head and fitting it over his shoulder. There's two other guitar players, a tall girl in a torn up school uniform, and a skinny guy with a massive, dark beard. The girl behind the drumkit has her hair spiked up in a similar way to Gerard, and she also has the same black bar over her eyes. The blond guy, Mikey, steps up to the front of the stage and grabs the microphone, and at the same time the drummer girl knocks her sticks together four times in rapid succession, and the song kicks into motion.

Frank isn't ready for it. They play hard and fast, and they're all throwing themselves around on the stage, the singer is hanging off of the microphone stand like he can't stand up on his own, spitting and groaning into the mic, and by the end of the third song, two out of three guitarists are on the floor.

It's _awesome_.

Frank watches Gerard, the way he bends his knees and leans backwards, bobbing his head along to the drums, his hair slowly losing its shape as sweat makes it stick to his face, his fingers flying over the fretboard of his bass. Frank can't look away.

He downs his beer and puts the empty bottle down on the floor close to the stage, and then he just lets himself be taken into the crowd, jumping and thrashing and yelling along to songs he doens't know the words to. It's everything he needs.

By the end of the set, he's drenched in sweat, and grinning so hard his jaw hurts, (that might be from the elbow he took to the face at some point in the pit, though,) and he's stumbling along with the crowd that's heading for the bar, and then there's a warm, sweaty body wrapping him up in a hug. He gets a faceful of brightly coloured hair.

“So awesome,” Gerard breathes into his ear. Frank agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for just ending it there??? I am writing this at 1am and I'm too tired to think about it anymore.  
> Thank you for reading :)


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